For The Windows In Paradise
by lovelyinherbones
Summary: What do you do when your world swims and you fall harder than you ever have before? PostLMR. MD angst and...? Semi-permanent hiatus.
1. Slow Motion

For The Windows In Paradise

By: LaLaLovely47

Rating: Let's say PG-15 to be safe

Disclaimer: I don't own GA, although I wish I had McDreamy, McSteamy and/or McVet.

A/N: My take on the infamous last scenes, and afterwards. This is my very first GA fic (hell, my very first fic other than Alias), so please be kind.

Recommended Soundtrack: To Be Alone With You by Sufjan Stevens

--

_In slow motion, the blast is beautiful._

_--_

There is no more waiting.

There are no more longing looks, stolen glances, forbidden touches, or lost words lingering on your lips.

In the blink of an eye, you finally collide, after throttling towards each other at breakneck speeds for what seems like an eternity.

You rediscover each other quickly, fingers roaming and unbuttoning, hearts beating and breaking, minds confused and happy. You sigh heavily as her small hands run down your back, a trail of sated exhilaration running behind them.

You pause your hands and halt your mouth, hovering over her lips with a question in your eyes, and waiting is like pure agony. It has been - maybe - three seconds, but it feels like you have continually been in this position.

Haven't you?

You look into her eyes, and she seems sad and scared and damaged, but you realize it is only your reflection staring back at you as you crash together again.

Her long, wavy hair brushes across your skin, leaving excruciating tentacles of fire across your burning flesh. You remember her telling you a secret. That her hair was naturally curly - the bane of her existence. When you laughed softly, it actually hurt her - she told you that she had gotten teased for having such curly hair when she was little. And so you watched her as she meticulously blow dried her hair around a large, round brush that mimicked the shape of her current waves. Because you wanted to know everything about her - she was everything you weren't and everything you had never known before.

She is perfection. She is crazy and unchaste and hurt (and you think she is still broken), but she is perfect, and truly, in your heart, she can do no wrong.

You kissed her that day. You wish you could go back and promise her that you would kiss her every day for the rest of your lives. But you can't, because you didn't.

You can smell her clean perfume and the heady, inebriating scent of the lotion she applies liberally - coconut and lily, she once told you - as it floats into your nostrils and intoxicates you with everything she is. Everything you have been, and everything you hope to be. It nearly makes you cry in happiness.

You can taste the omnipresent cherry Chapstick on her lips and the faint flavor of kettle corn, which you know she was snacking on all through the night, thrilled that "the Prom Committee" had decided to put out her favorite snack.

You know that about her. You know a lot about her. You wonder if she knows as much about you.

You truly _know_ her - don't you?

--

You look into his eyes as you tumble over the edge, and they are the purest, darkest, deepest shade of blue that you have ever seen reflecting back at you. Of all the times you have gotten lost in his oceanic, soulful eyes, you have never seen them so honest and relieved. You think you can count the slivers of gold that have been sprinkled throughout the deep sapphire, but you lose count at three, your mind preoccupied with things more important than finding flecks of gilded iris in his near black eyes.

Somewhere downstairs, you can hear the opening riffs of a song by The Clash. Of course - his favorite band. One of the very few details about him that you have logged in your mind. You were so surprised when you found out - you had him pegged as a man of Coldplay or even Bruce Springsteen. But his favorite band was the Clash - since then, you've thrown out the few cd's of The Clash you own.

Your eyes drift closed as you melt into him, your hands shaking with release as they dig into his strong shoulders. His talented hands are spread wide against your back and support your weight, not letting you fall against the table.

You wish he had kept you from falling a long time ago. _'What have I done?'_ you think as the familiar feeling in the pit of your stomach finds its ordinary resting place and the tiny voice in the back of your mind makes yet another appearance.

'_Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.'_ He was right. You're a whore.

But he made you that way.

--

"Meredith?"

How can one word possibly mean so much? His voice is full of expectance...like he has a right to expect something from you. He has no right to look at you the way he does or speak to you the way he does. The way that makes the room around you swim and the permanent butterflies in your stomach flutter. He really doesn't.

Does he?

Even so, you know your decision before you know it. You know you can't drag this on any longer without ruining yourself or those around you.

"I..." you begin, but before you even part your lips, the room begins to spin and your chest feels like it is collapsing in on itself...you can't breathe...and the world to you goes black.


	2. Self Inflicted Wounds

A/N: I know this fic started out more about being poetic and flowery, but it will gradually have more dialogue in it. So enjoy, and reviews are greatly appreciated (i.e. more reviews quicker update).

Recommended Soundtrack: I Just Don't Think I'll Ever Get Over You by Colin Hay

--

Chapter 2

Self-Inflicted Wounds

--

_You're cinematic, razor sharp_

_A welcome arrow through the heart_

--

He catches her. _He_ catches her. But you made her fall.

As he picks her up, she softly murmurs your name, and you can't help but think that that is a tiny victory in a long, cold war ahead of you.

--

The pain you're feeling now - is it emotional or physical?

Physical. Surely is, positively, possibly not, definitely isn't physical.

Your heartbeat is erratic and your breathing is shallow and you're not sure who you are. But you know who he is. You know his voice. You know his faint smell (Ralph Lauren Polo, thank you very much) and the beat of his footsteps.

Your earth spins when you realize who is carrying you, and it isn't him. You realize who it is and wish who it isn't.

God, how you wish you could just shrivel up and die right now. Just leave behind your problems and let someone else take care of them. Let someone else be tortured and confused and happy and demoralized and sated. Just...let someone else do it.

But as many ironic lessons have taught you, you can't have everything you want. You can't have him and you certainly can't have the other.

You are empty. You are isolated.

You are alone.

--

You could be happy. You know you could be happy with the life you have and the love you _had_. But you are selfish. You are selfish and you aren't willing to give up that easily, knowing that there is something - or rather _someone_ - out there greater for you.

A greedy part of you wishes that she had totally shut down when you left her. That's the same part that held her close to you tonight, relishing in the happy tremors that coursed throughout your bodies - a true release of pent-up frustrations and emotions.

But now you're here, stuck at an impasse, waiting to find the rewind button. You're here, waiting for her to wake up and tell you what the hell is going on, because the answer you have sure as hell isn't going to fly.

You remember. She smiled at _him_ - the wide, dimpled smile that was once reserved only for you - and your heart skipped a jealous beat. You throat clenched and your mind reeled in envy. You know now that it was the way she has felt for months now.

Her soft waves fall gently around her face, and she looks so innocent and pure that you momentarily forget how jaded she really is.

--

Your eyes slowly peel open, once again exposing themselves to the harsh light of reality. You don't move, because if you do, you know the headache that is hitting you in waves will only be exasperated. The fabric of the formerly comfortable dress you have been wearing is now itching you with not only the threads of the material, but the threads of the memories that will always be associated with it.

He's there. He's there and he's sitting in a chair in the far corner of the room, the bridge of his nose pinched between his forefinger and thumb, apparently deep in concentration. You can see the tiredness reflected on his face and in the deep wrinkles in his forehead.

You snap your eyes closed again, hoping to run away back into your dreamless, worriless sleep. But he catches you and murmurs your name softly.

"Meredith." There he goes again, his voice so full of anticipation, as though you are going to give him something to go on - something that he doesn't really deserve and you don't really have.

"What's wrong with me?" you say, your eyes still squeezed shut.

"Meredith," he repeats, his lips poised for the talk you aren't ready to have and are hoping to postpone indefinitely. You finally open your eyes and realize he is standing now, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, next to your bed, his eyes darkened with angst. Suddenly it is hard to breathe.

"Derek." He sighs dejectedly and you know you have won for now, leaving your inevitable pain for another day.

"You were suffering from stress and exhaustion," he mumbles, boring a hole in the floor, when really his stare should be aimed at you, and you resist the urge to say sarcastically, _'I wonder why?'_ The corner of your lip tugs up imperceptibly at your personal joke and he says, "That's it. You should be able to leave in a few hours."

You don't speak. Your face is expressionless and your lips form a tiny circle and you let out a small sigh, breathing the syllable, "Oh."

You watch him intently as he shifts, his right hand hesitantly pulling from the depths of the pocket and lingering in the air over your hand, which lays on the bed next to you. You swear you feel your fingers twitch, as though magnetically attracted towards his. You think he is about to speak, but he just sighs again and rubs the temporary creases in his forehead, which will surely disappear as soon as you are out of his mind.

"I...ah," he begins, finally uttering something, "I'm just glad you're ok." Damn him. Damn him, damn him, damn him. Damn him for being so...so kind and good and for breathing and being alive. You can feel the tears stinging the back of your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. They will never fall for him.

You simply nod and close your eyes again briefly, acknowledging that you heard him. He sighs again, a seemingly new release valve that he has had to create for you.

And then he simply leaves.

--


	3. Ignore, Ignore, Ignore

1**_A/N: No more reviews no more chapters!_** Also, sorry this chap is kind of short, but I'm working on it. It's kind of hard for me, since this is my very first GA fic, but I promise it will get better (I think)! Also, if you use the Recommended Soundtrack, tell me what you think please!

Recommended Soundtrack: I Feel Love by Blue Man Group & Venus Hum

--

Chapter 3

Ignore, Ignore, Ignore

_Without you here, there is less to say..._

Your life for the past three days has been running.

Run, run, run. You were running five minutes ago to the seventh floor - a set of blood tests and a case file that had to be delivered within two minutes, and when you caught an elevator just before the doors shut on your opportunity to scrub in, you nearly bowed down and thanked the Elevator Gods above.

'_Run, run, run, run, run.'_ Run and get labs done, run to the OR, run home to check on your friend, run and make your rounds, run from him and run from her.

Avoidance is the best policy. It keeps you safe and unhurt, and it lets you forget without intoxicating yourself. It allows you to be by yourself and be surrounded by a crowd of people all at the same time.

For the time being, you can drown yourself in work and consolation - you have bigger issues than your big issues, and you can deal with the smaller ones later. You have someone to take care of, patients to see, MRI's and CT's and x-ray's to look at, labs to pick up, more rounds to make, and two people to avoid. For now, you can ignore it.

But inside, you are screaming. You are screaming for him and needing him in ways that you should have forgotten about long ago. Unfortunately, he has reminded you of the way he loves you and now you can't get it out of your mind.

So you keep it out of sight. Out of sight and out of mind, right? You see him coming down a hallway and duck into an on-call room. You see him walking towards the elevator and you take the stairs. You cautiously avoid neurosurgery cases, afraid of being burned by the one thing that is steady in your life - the scalpel.

But isn't that the irony of the world? Nothing really is certain, is it? Nothing is guaranteed and nothing is set in stone. A death, a gunshot, an affair, or a slip of the hand can get in the way of your plans - of plans you are just starting to make.

Now, you are riding a (thankfully) silent and empty elevator down to the basement to try and catch a few minutes of sleep before the afternoon rush comes in. The warm, uncharacteristically sunny days have been prompting more bike accidents, rollerblading mishaps, car wrecks, and heat stroke cases than have been seen in a long time. You think it's appropriate. Your world is crashing around you, and so is everyone else's.

Suddenly, the elevator doors swing open, waking you from your trance, and you step forward briefly before realizing this isn't your stop - someone's getting on.

Who else would you expect to get on the damn elevator at this point?

You are going to make a run for it and take the stairs down, when you realize you're on the 5th floor (commonly known as Psych Ward), and there isn't stairwell access. So, it's either loose your precious sleep or go on the longest elevator ride ever.

Life freaking sucks.

--

You see her in the corner of the small metal box when the doors swing open, emitting a gust of cool air. You don't know if the chill is from the air conditioning or the icy look she is throwing at you.

You step on, and you almost smile when you realize you have her cornered. She's not going to run and she's not going to avoid you this time. You've got her.

--

"Hello, Meredith," he says, a hint of his familiar, flirtatious and at the same time cocky, tone seeping into his words and the tiniest of tiny smirks gracing the corner of his mouth.

"Hello, _Dr. Shepherd_," you spit, your voice laced with venom, yet at the same time taking on the slightest bit of your own teasing tone.

--

You hear the smile in her voice, but her face is a dead-set mask of anger. She glares at the floor, hoping to burn a hole in it, because you know that she knows that if she were to look at you, she would smile.

--

His extremely tepid flirting is so supremely inappropriate at this point, you think a man streaking in a church would blush. You are angry that you can't be mad at him. You are angry that if you look at him, you will grin. And he will laugh, that soft chuckle that tells you exactly _how much_ he wants you, and then, you'll be a goner. So you glare at the floor, hoping to burn a hole in it, one that will be just big enough for you to fall through and never have to see him again.

But you aren't so lucky and the Elevator Gods hate you, because suddenly, the metal contraption comes to a screeching halt, the lights flicker off, being replaced by the soft glow of the emergency lights, and you are stuck in a freaking elevator with Derek Shepherd.

--


	4. Figuratively and Literally

A/N: This chapter is rated a strong PG - 16.

Recommended Soundtrack: God Put A Smile Upon Your Face by Coldplay

--

Chapter 4

Figuratively and Literally

_I see trouble on the way..._

"It looks like we're stuck," you say, stating the obvious, just to see what kind of reaction you can elicit from her.

"Great deduction, Holmes," she spits, and you throw her a smirk over your shoulder, since she is standing slightly behind you. You lean over and futilely press the 'B' button, hoping to eventually reach your basement destination. "You know, I think if the elevator was going to move, your repeatedly pressing the button wouldn't make it go faster."

You smile.

'_There she is.'_

--

You can't help but let the snide marks slip from your tongue as you slide down the wall of the elevator, sitting on the cool tile floor with your knees pushed up against your chest.

A small smile graces his lips again and you continue to glare at him as he slips down onto the floor next to you, his own submission to the fact that you are stuck in a 7' x 5' metal box, suspended between the fifth and fourth stories of a rather large building.

He leans his head back against wall, his left leg stretched out while his right leg is pulled towards his chest, his arm resting on his knee. He looks so relaxed that you wouldn't be surprised if the next time you blinked, a cigarette would be hanging from between the fingers of his right hand, dangling precariously off of his knee.

He doesn't smoke.

--

"Do you smoke?" she says. Of all the things to say in this very quiet, very important, and very awkward moment, she asks if you, on a regular basis, puff chemicals.

What a very Meredith thing to do.

"No," you say, "No I don't. Why?" She sighs and doesn't answer. She simply gets up and starts pacing the floor in front of you, her hand on her hip and her palm pressing against her forehead. You don't push her to talk, because you really don't want to have this conversation, either.

Four steps to one side, four steps back.

1, 2. She stops. She glances at you and keeps going. 3, 4. Turn. 1, 2, 3, 4. She briefly glances at the elevator doors, perhaps thinking that if she looked at them hard enough, they would spring open and release her from this cubicle of hell.

1, 2, 3...she stops again. Finally, she looks down at you.

"What are we doing?"

--

It's a simple question, isn't it? You need a simple answer for a simple question.

Yeah, right.

"I don't know," he says honestly, using his forefinger and thumb to pinch the dark blue fabric of his scrubs that are laid over his propped up knee, "I don't know."

"Well, I don't know either. How do we find out?"

He shrugs. He freaking shrugs. Is he as stupid as you are? Because if he is, you're both screwed. In the figurative sense, of course. You are truly and honestly screwed, because right now, you've dug yourselves into a deep, dark hole and there's no way out.

You fall against the wall next to where he is sitting and lean against the rail that is positioned around the large box, dejection coursing through your veins and pouring from you in the form of a sigh. The cool metal edge of the rail is digging gently into your palm - just enough to feel an ache, but not too much that the hurt isn't welcome.

At this point, the pain lets you know you're alive.

--

You're confused. You admit it, you're confused. You don't know what do anymore. You don't know what to do, where to go, what to say, how to say it. You think it'd be better sometimes if you just kept your mouth shut and your hands to yourself.

But there she went - she had to make you feel so strange and jealous and angry. She just had to be...her. So she's partly to blame.

You glance up at her, and she sighs sweetly, her skin giving off a soft glow and her hair falling haphazardly over her eye, and your momentary anger is vanished, replaced by a complete and utter need to just watch her - to let her fill your world, if only for a moment.

--

He stands and leans against the railing across from you, in the exact same position you are in.

Legs crossed, arms propping you up, head cocked to the side. You sigh, annoyed, and cross your arms over your chest, just so he's not so damn...cute. He's cute. That's it, your downfall is for cuteness. And dorkiness. And the hair - oh god, the hair.

You stop yourself before your mind can wander anymore.

You are angry. You are angry and broken and confused and a dirty mistress. No one should smile and no one should flirt. Damn anything that isn't depression.

You should not be doing this (whatever _this_ is), even if it is in the most mild sense of the word. Does lips tugging up at one corner count as flirting?

--

You're not sure who moves first, but the next thing you know, you're in the center of the elevator, kissing her like there is no tomorrow.

First, your hands are planted on her cheeks, but they soon have a mind of their own and begin their trail over her body by running through her glorious locks. Tongues are dueling, hands are wandering, clothes are being tugged at. She gasps as you slam her against the wall and simultaneously attack the sensitive spot behind her right ear.

You smile against her skin in accomplishment.

--

His body pressed against yours sends a wave of burning electricity throughout your body as both of your scrub tops are discarded and he is left half naked and you in a thin white henley top, which is also quickly cast aside. Your mind grows fuzzy and you loose track of where his limbs end yours begin. The familiar knot happily finds its place in the base of your stomach as his fingers butterfly around the waistband of your pants, but the small of your back arches when a tremor rips through your body as he runs his fingers up the length of your bare spine.

"You're so beautiful," he mumbles, and you shiver, your entire body taken away with his voice. Again, he smiles against your skin as his goal is reached, and you quickly do away with the rest of your clothing.

--

Forty-five minutes later, when you are finally let out of the entrapment of the stuck elevator, he has made you his dirty mistress whore twice more (for a total of three times).

You've decided to keep track. To remember and remind yourself how many times you have failed - failed the morals of society, failed him, failed yourself, hell you might has well failed at life. You did a bad, bad thing and you enjoyed it.

You exit the elevator hot, sweaty, and pissed. You are actually angry now. Both of you are - deep scowls are etched onto your faces, because he cheated on his wife _again_ and you're his dirty mistress. And a whore. But damn if being a mistress isn't mind-blowing.

'_This is bad. This is very, very bad.'_

--

What the hell are you doing? Is this some sort of revenge on her? To get back at her for cheating on you? For coming back to Seattle and messing up the life you were starting to make for yourself? Is that what it is to _her_? A meaningless screw?

In this moment, you can't help but be shocked at what your life has turned into. It seems like only yesterday that you were worried about your tricycle and cutting the hair off of your sister's Barbie dolls.

Today, you're cutting people's brains open, and having an affair because you fell in love with someone after your wife screwed your best friend.

How ridiculous is that?

--

The possibilities of running into a woman when you have just had earth-shattering, adulterant sex (that is confusing you and tearing you up from the inside out) with her husband are small, right?

So why is it that you of all people, have the worst luck on the face of the earth? You are a bad liar. That's why you are a doctor - you can use a lot of big, unexplainable words, successfully confusing people without ever having to tell them the outright truth. You can hide behind science and vocabulary, but now you can't hide and you don't know what to do.

"Hello, Addison."

You are _so_ screwed.


	5. Mirth

Dedication: This is for my new friend, AFan17, because she's amazing and sweet and a brilliant writer, and I thought I would update for her. And she shares my views on Alias. Hi, A!

A/N: This chapter is short and ridiculous and awful. :( And there's a little more humor than previous chaps. I'm not a total angst-ball.

Recommended Soundtrack: Traffic In The Sky by Jack Johnson

Chapter 5

Mirth

_Where do we go? Nobody knows._

_I've gotta say I'm on my way down..._

You come up behind them and your heart freezes over in your throat. There they are. Just...standing there.

"Hello," you mumble to no one in particular, your eyes wandering down the hall behind them, praying for someone to come and save you from this purgatory situation you've gotten yourself into.

She shoots you a piercing look and you pray that the scent of your indiscretion doesn't linger in the air or the residue of her lip gloss isn't left on your cheek.

"Meredith, Derek," she says, her eyebrow lifting in suspicion.

You are in _trouble_ now.

--

The awkwardness is too much to bear. You have to stop yourself from apologizing profusely to her and you're surprised you don't fall groveling to her feet.

The tension in the air is suffocating you, and the rings on their fingers are strangling you, your eyes bulging in shock and your breath ragged with fear.

You are a horrible, dirty, whore and what do you do? You laugh.

It begins in a small giggle erupting from your throat, but soon turns into a doubling-over belly laugh.

"I'm s-sorry!" you stutter out, your breaths coming in gasps between the uncontrollable chuckles coming from your lips, "I-I shouldn't laugh...! It's really...not funny..." you try and explain, but the looks everybody is giving you only fuels your mirth. Your laughter is shaking you so vigorously, tears begin to form in your eyes.

"I'm sorry," you repeat, wiping furiously at the hysterical salty droplets falling down the planes of your cheeks, "I have to go," and with that, you turn and quickly walk away, escaping and leaving two very shocked and very confused people behind her.

--

You watch her as she walks away, her shoulders slouched over and shaking, laughter still ripping through her in small bouts.

"Ok, then..." your wife says, her face even more confused than yours - but you know. You know how ironic it was that after doing _that_ in an elevator, the first person you both see is your wife. "Are you ok? Richard called and told me about the elevator..." her genuine concern is almost too much for your guilt-ridden conscience to bear, because you can still smell _her_ on your skin, taste _her_ in your mouth, and see _her_ in your mind - for a momentary flash of stupidity, she fills your reality, and you briefly smile - a smirk that is not unnoticed by your wife. "What?" she says, her curiosity at the sudden outburst and your small smirk trickling out, "Do I have something in my teeth, or in my hair?"

"No," you say, "No you don't." With that, you are finally allowed to leave - the strangeness and suddenness of the state of affairs definitely not alleviating the tension and guilt bubbling up inside of you.

You're not sure whether or not to be happy and jump for joy and shout it from the rooftops that you were _with her_ - that for a precious few seconds, you two were the only people on the earth, filling each other's senses and world, or be terrified that what you are being a complete hypocrite and a phony in this pretense of a marriage you have.

Conflict sucks.

--

You are embarrassed. Ashamed, even, at your childish antics. You behaved like a two-year old.

It was sort of like when you and your significant other (or in this case, ex-boyfriend) have a huge, knockdown, drag-out fight, and the tension and anger builds to such an intensity, that only thing left to do is have Dirty Exam Room Sex. However rational may not be the word to describe it, things get carried away.

While standing in a hallway with said ex-boyfriend and said ex-boyfriend's wife, just after you have had Dirty _Stuck Elevator_ Sex, the only thing you can possibly think of to do is laugh, because the irony and randomness is just too much for you to bear. The stiffness and stress still hung in the air over you like a cheap hooker's perfume (the Stella McCartney you splashed on this morning), but your sudden flare-up of puerility was just enough to distract you from it.

You were lucky you got out so simply - it could have been (and should have been) much uglier and painful than what you experienced. The way you exited was actually quite irrational and improbable, if you did say so yourself.

Although you have no idea what was said after you left, you're pretty sure it didn't have to do much with divorces and affairs.

Maybe.

--


End file.
